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O helpless few in my country,
O remnant enslaved!


















Artist broken against her
A-stray, lost in the villages
Mistrusted, spoken-against






















Lovers of beauty, starved
Thwarted with systems
Helpless against the control












You who can not wear yourselves out
By persisting to successes
You who can only speak
Who can not steel yourselves into reiteration
























You of the finer sense
Broken against false knowledge
You who can know at first hand
Hated, shut in, mistrusted

















Take thought
I have weathered the storm
I have beaten out my exile






Ezra Pound